Friday, 11 October 2013

AGAINST REASON

CHAPTER ONE

Rain
ran down the window pane. The trees on the sweeping driveway were bowed under
the weight of the wind. The knock at the door came again. Jake Morgan pressed
his hand to the glass and craned his head down. He had already buzzed the main
gates open. He knew who his visitor was. A tall man stood sheltering under the
porch, shoulders hunched against the cold, smart in a black wool jacket, hands
thrust in the pockets. He was young and dark-haired but Jake couldn’t see his
face. He stepped back from the window and sighed, closing his eyes. Was he
going to ignore the stranger? What was the point in advertising for staff if he
didn’t open the door when they came for interview?

It
wasn’t easy making even this little concession to the outside world though
after so long. He dug his nails into his palms, fists clenched. He could do
this. He could.

He
turned, exited the room and took the stairs with measured steps. Pausing at the
front door, he smoothed his hair back and tugged his sweater over his narrow
hips. He could see the stranger’s silhouette through the frosted glass. It gave
him palpitations.

He
slid the bolts back at the top and bottom. He turned the key in the lock once,
then locked it again. Turned it again, locked it again. Shit, not the counting,
not now. What would the guy think? Once more he opened and locked the door
before he mustered all his courage and self-control and stopped at three.
Trying to slow his breathing, he unlocked the door a final time and swung it open.

The
wind nearly buffeted him back. The stranger lifted his face eagerly in relief.
Their eyes locked and that troublesome heart of Jake’s, battered and broken and
way beyond salvation gave a curious little leap as he gazed upon the man’s face.
His stomach lurched too. Warmth spread down towards his groin. He stepped back,
blushing, confused as to what had just happened.

The
man took it as an invite. He stepped inside and pushed the door shut, his gaze
never leaving Jake’s. His eyes were a curious pale gold, fringed with lush
lashes, mesmerising and intense. He dripped water onto the marble floor of the
hallway as they stood weighing each other up in silence, eyes locked.

The
stranger cleared his throat. He was a man of around thirty-five, the same
height as Jake – six two – with a lean, worked-out body. He was lightly tanned,
closely-shaved and fine-featured. Everything in proportion – nose, chin, mouth.
Everything perfectly symmetrical, the classification for a beautiful person. He
was beautiful all right, there was no doubt about that. Jake felt like a
wilting wallflower just looking upon him.

“I’m
here for the interview,” the man said. He held out his hand. “Darius Harrison.”

Jake
looked at it. All the touch he’d known in ten years had been handshakes. To men
who’d done work on his house or his garden or delivered items of furniture. He
was reluctant even to commit to that. And now this man, offering his hand with
its short, neat nails and long, slim fingers, seemed like he was offering
something way more intimate than Jake could handle. The touch of his skin. Jake
could barely breathe. He couldn’t do it and yet, he wanted it. He wanted it so
much.

Hesitantly,
he extended his hand, barely covering the short distance between them. Darius
Harrison grasped it. His skin was cold and wet with rain and despite this, it
heated Jake’s blood to inferno proportions. He snatched his hand back and
turned away, muttering, “You’re cold. Come through.”

He
led Darius down the hall to the living room. A log fire blazed, the curtains
firmly shut against the gloomy afternoon, lamps lit. He gestured to the
stranger to take a seat near the fire under the circle of the brightest lamp –
all the better to admire his beautiful face – and sat on the couch opposite
him.

Darius
unfastened his coat. He sat down and crossed one leg over the other and Jake
glanced at his shoes. He would deny he had OCD to anyone who asked but he
couldn’t explain away the little rituals he had. Shoes were important to him.
They could make or break this interview. Darius Harrison wore shiny black
leather brogues. They glistened with water and looked brand new. They were
sturdy and well fitted. He teamed them with black socks, his smart black pants
exactly the right length.

Jake
sat back, satisfied. Nice shoes, beautiful face and an impressive body. There
was no way he could let this man work for him. None at all. His shoulders
slumped in resignation and he searched for a polite way to dismiss the
candidate with haste. What had he been thinking of, inviting complete strangers
into his home after so long? More to the point, why was the only applicant an
attractive man instead of a homely, non-threatening woman who would mother him
and make him apple pie?

He
sighed and realised it had come out loud. Darius lifted a quizzical eyebrow. Jake
coughed, straightened up in his chair. “Thank you for coming out on such a
lousy day,” he said.

Darius
inclined his head. He kept those golden eyes fixed on Jake and Jake’s bones
started to melt, his body overcome with languor. He crossed one ankle over the
opposite knee, hiding his groin for fear he would soon get an erection.

“You
know what the job entails?” he asked.

“Not
really,” Darius replied. “Your advert was a little vague.”

“General...”
Jake hesitated, appalled that he had been about to say dogsbody. It was hardly what he thought someone working for him
would be. He merely wanted someone to take the monotony of cleaning and cooking
from him and leave him with more time to... stew. “Handyman,” he finished.
“Cooking, cleaning, odd jobs.”

Darius
nodded.

“How
are you at plumbing and electrics?”

“Not
bad. My dad taught me a lot.”

This
wasn’t what Jake wanted to hear. He had hoped Darius would say he couldn’t cook
or that he didn’t know how to do anything as basic as changing a plug. He had expected
it to be easy enough to dismiss him. Darius didn’t look like a domestic god,
but if you believed him, then he was. Curse him.

“It
would be five days a week,” he said. “Nine till five or eight till four.
Something like that. Possibly more flexible if I want to eat late. Maybe
evenings and weekends.” He hoped the weekends would be a deal breaker. Someone
as blessed as Darius had to be out most Saturday nights chasing skirt.

“Sure,”
Darius said. He looked relaxed but those unsettling eyes were still searching Jake’s
as though looking for the mysteries of his soul. The only mystery he would find
would be a shattered man, unable to connect anymore with society.

“Do
you have a driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

“I
might ask you to pick up groceries. On occasion you might drive me. Those
occasions will be rare. I don’t...” Jake stopped. He had no need to explain
himself to this man and Darius had no right to know and yet, Jake felt like he
should say something. He bit his lip, ran a hand through his hair in a nervous
gesture. “Are you from these parts?”

“Yes.”

“Then
you might have heard people talk about me in town.” Jake bowed his head, cheeks
heating, feeling shame. People called him Mr. Havisham, a corruption of the
character in Great Expectations. The
woman who had been stood up on her wedding day and had left her house untouched
since, haunting it still wearing her dress, endlessly broken. Jake had changed
out of his wedding suit after a week but it still hung in his closet ten years
later.

“None
of my business,” Darius said. “I despise gossip.”

Jake
lifted his gaze. Darius’s expression was carefully neutral as though he knew Jake
would deplore any pity or sympathy. Jake wondered if Darius found him spineless
or pitiful.

“Is
the position live-in?” Darius asked.

Jake
was startled. He had never considered such a thing. His palms were instantly
wet, his heart pounding at the thought. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“All
right,” Darius said easily.

The
interview was slipping away from him. It seemed impossible to turn this man
down. “I’ll need to give you a test,” he said.

Darius
didn’t say anything.

“You’ll
need to cook my dinner tonight.”

Darius
smiled. “Sure.”

Jake
was finicky. Darius wouldn’t pass the test.

“Now
or shall I come back?” Darius asked.

Jake
hesitated. It was unfair to send Darius back out in the rain and ask him to
come back later, he knew that. But it was only two pm. Well, an early dinner
wouldn’t kill him. He ate barely a bird’s portion of food a day anyway, so what
did it matter? Darius would have to have the competence of a world-class chef
to raise even the slightest bit of enthusiasm on Jake’s part. “You might as
well start now.” He rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

Jake
led Darius down the hall to the kitchen. A huge room, all gleaming marble and
chrome, it saw very little action. It was far from pristine though; Jake wasn’t
a big fan of housework. He looked at the grubby floor and stained sink through Darius’s
eyes and was embarrassed.

Darius
said nothing. He loitered by the door.

“The
fridge and cupboards are full,” Jake said. “Take your pick.”

Darius
moved forward. “Two courses or three?”

Jake
looked at him in surprise. “Just a main course is fine. I don’t eat a lot.”

“You
haven’t tasted my cooking yet.” Darius smiled for the first time. It grooved dimples
around his mouth and showed neat, pearly teeth.

Jake’s
stomach clenched. He tried to dodge around Darius in the doorway. A whiff of
intoxicating cologne assailed his nose as he passed. Darius moved aside. He
approached the granite island in the centre of the kitchen. “Is an hour all
right?”

“Fine,”
Jake said, already fleeing. “I’ll be just...” he gestured back to the living
room and disappeared.

The
sound of clattering pots and pans reached Jake’s ears even with the TV on. A
sharp blade struck a wooden chopping board. Cupboards opened and closed and the
cutlery drawer rattled. An enticing smell drifted down the hall and Jake’s
stomach sat up and took notice, to his surprise. If Darius made something
passable, Jake would have to hire him, he knew that. He was an honest man. He
couldn’t lie and pretend he didn’t like the food if he did. He couldn’t pretend
Darius wasn’t qualified for the job unless he wanted to give the man an
additional test – fix the leaky tap upstairs or the hinge on the wardrobe door.
He leaned back in his chair with eyes closed and took some slow, deep breaths.
The last attractive man who had cooked for him had been Marc of course, in this
house, in that kitchen. Marc had done everything with style. Cooking,
handiwork, gardening, fucking. He did it all with aplomb. Especially the
latter. Jake had been the most satisfied man on planet earth. And yet, clearly Jake
had not been enough for Marc. He didn’t know what failing in him had caused Marc
to look elsewhere. Had he been needy and clingy? Had he been too aloof? Was he
bad in bed? Selfish, under-endowed, unimaginative?

When
you had ten years to analyse every aspect of your own character, it soon sent
you down the road to ruin. Now when Jake looked in the mirror, he saw an ugly
man with a twisted, bitter face. Miss Havisham had been a cross between a waxwork
and a skeleton, sickly looking and prematurely aged due to lack of sunlight. Jake
imagined he saw the same.

He
battled with himself as he listened to the sounds from the kitchen. Darius was
here to work for him. What did it matter what he thought of Jake or whether he
found him physically repulsive? Because Jake still had the slightest trace left
of that proud gay man he had once been. He wanted someone as attractive as Darius
to admire him. He didn’t want his pity or his distaste. He didn’t want Darius
to go out to town and tell others what he had seen at the big, lonely house
with the electric gates made for keeping people out. It bothered Jake what
others thought about him, when so far down the road, it shouldn’t have.
Dwelling on it turned his self-loathing into a vicious cycle. He sighed, hands
clenching the arms of his chair. He shouldn’t have done this. Had his advert
for a helper been an unconscious plea for some company, any company? When Marc
had left him on his wedding day, Jake had decided he would never need anyone
again. He would never become so reliant that the loss of another person
devastated him. He would never again leave himself wide open to such hurt.

He
stood, intent on going to the kitchen and asking Darius to leave his home
immediately. At that moment, Darius appeared at the door.

“It’s
ready,” he said.

Jake
reluctantly followed Darius into the kitchen. One place was set at the large
pine table complete with wine glass and napkin. “Sit down,” Darius said and
turned to the oven, busying himself with a mitt.

Jake
did as he was told. He glanced at Darius’s backside as he bent to remove a hot
plate. His pants stretched nicely over two firm, round buttocks like a peach.
For a moment, Jake imagined what lay between those buttocks and felt his cock
swell with blood instantly. He cursed inwardly and pulled his chair closer to
the table.

Darius
plated up grilled salmon, new potatoes and spinach, oblivious to Jake’s gaze.
He drizzled a fragrant sauce over the fish and put it down before Jake with a
flourish.

“Thank
you.” Jake looked at it a moment.

Darius
opened the fridge door. “Wine?”

“Yes,
please.” There was a half-empty bottle in the door. If there was one thing Jake
always had plenty of, it was alcohol. In the weeks following Marc’s departure
he had drank himself unconscious nearly every night. It had only not turned
into a permanent habit by sheer force of will. He couldn’t say what force that
was. Certainly not self-preservation because he had wished himself dead more
than once.

Darius
filled his glass. Jake picked up his cutlery. He sliced some salmon and put it
in his mouth. Perfectly cooked, the sauce spicy and garlicky. He tried the
spinach. Wilted just so and seasoned to perfection. The potatoes were buttery
and delicious. While Darius filled the dishwasher, Jake devoured a home-cooked
meal for the first time in ten years.

When
he sat back and looked at his empty plate, he was shocked at himself. His
stomach was satisfyingly full and the wine had gone to his head. He was ready
for a lie down. But the oven was still on and another fragrance filled the air
as Darius opened the door.

“Apple
and plum cobbler?” he asked with a glance at the empty plate and a little
smile.

“I
said I didn’t want...”

“You
need feeding up. You’re too thin.”

Jake
bristled. A cross between a waxwork and a
skeleton. Darius turned away. He started stirring custard in a pan. He
dished out the steaming cobbler and topped it nearly to the rim of the dish
with thick, delicious custard. Jake nearly fell upon it like a starving man.
Never had he tasted anything so good in his life. He had always had a sweet
tooth, at least when Marc cooked for him but rarely indulged it now. He had
forgotten the joy of desserts.

“Coffee?”
Darius asked and Jake nodded, mouth full. Darius worked the complicated machine
without asking. He produced a lovely cup in Jake’s best china mug and added
cream.

Jake
finished the cobbler. He took a sip of coffee and sat back in his chair,
rubbing his full belly. Darius smiled at him. A satisfied, confident smile and
instead of irritating Jake, it infected him. He smiled back, tentatively,
because it stretched his face in unknown ways. Darius smiled wider at that, as
though Jake’s smile pleased him and Jake unaccountably blushed and dropped his
gaze.

“You’re
hired.”

“Really?”

Jake
pushed his chair away from the table and turned away. “Really. Finish up here
and show yourself out. Be back at eight tomorrow.” He hurried up the stairs
before Darius could say anything further and shut himself in his bedroom. He
knew he had a long evening of self-recrimination and insomnia ahead of him.

****

Darius
was still smiling when he dried his hands on a towel and turned out the kitchen
light. For a moment he stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. Nothing.
The downstairs rooms were in darkness, the master of the house still ensconced
upstairs. Darius turned away and headed for the front door. He made sure it was
firmly closed behind him and stepped out into the rain with the collar of his
jacket turned up.

He
had read Great Expectations at
school. He had half-expected Jake Morgan to look like Miss Havisham, for him to
be mooning around a crumbling mansion wearing one shoe and a tatty morning
suit. Instead the guy was in his late thirties, casually dressed in black
sweater and jeans. Unlike Miss Havisham, he was very handsome. His black hair,
alabaster skin and sapphire eyes were deeply appealing.

Darius
opened his car door. He settled into his seat and fastened his belt before
starting the engine. He turned the heat up high, waited for the windows to
demist. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said the gossip was none of his business
but he was intrigued nonetheless. How did a man that physically blessed do
something as tragic as turning himself into a recluse hiding away in the wilds
of Connecticut? Did he work to support this magnificent house? Still, one man’s
loss was another’s gain. Jake would probably be an easy-going employer who Darius
would never see. He wouldn’t want to make conversation or play games of
Scrabble. And the remuneration was great. As far as Darius could see it was a
perfect job. Of course he would have liked accommodation thrown in too because
he was behind on his rent and hated his apartment but soon he’d be able to
afford to settle his debts and move somewhere better. As long as he kept
appealing to the guy’s belly with delicious food.

Darius
started the engine. The look of gratitude in Jake’s eyes as he’d sat back after
the meal had been almost sad. Darius felt sorry for him. He liked the way he’d
made Jake smile. It had tugged a little at his heart-strings. He cruised down
the drive and out of the gates. As soon as he’d gone, he saw the gates slowly
closing in his rear view mirror. Was Jake watching him on camera? Had he seen Darius
sitting in his car ruminating over the interview?

Darius
glanced down at the bulge in his pants as he accelerated down the road. He gave
a rueful smile because it had been a while.